Five Scarpetta Novels (161 page)

“I suppose she's in a coffin. I've heard about the pine boxes places like this have,” Mrs. Paulsson says, her eyes filling with tears.

“No, she's not in a coffin. There are no pine boxes here. Your daughter's body is in a cooler.”

“My poor baby must be so cold,” she cries.

“Gilly doesn't feel the cold, Mrs. Paulsson,” Scarpetta says kindly. “She's not feeling any discomfort or pain. I promise.”

“You've seen her?”

“Yes, I have,” Scarpetta replies. “I examined her.”

“Tell me she didn't suffer. Please tell me she didn't.”

But Scarpetta can't tell her that. To tell her that would be a lie. “There are a lot of tests still to be done,” she replies. “The labs will be doing tests for quite some time. Everybody's working very hard to find out exactly what happened to Gilly.”

Mrs. Paulsson cries quietly as Scarpetta leads her down the corridor, back to the administrative offices, and asks one of the clerks to leave her cubicle to give Mrs. Paulsson copies of the reports she has requested and to release Gilly's personal effects, which are a pair of gold heart earrings and a leather bracelet, nothing more. Her pajamas and bedding and whatever else the police gathered are considered evidence and aren't going anywhere right now. Scarpetta is just walking back to the conference room when Marino appears, walking quickly along the corridor, his head bent and face flushed.

“Not a good morning so far,” she comments when he walks up. “Not for you either, it appears. I've been trying to get hold of you. I guess you got my message.”

“What's she doing here?” he blurts out, referring to Mrs. Paulsson and visibly upset.

“Picking up Gilly's personal effects, copies of reports.”

“She can do that when they can't even decide who gets her body?”

“She's next of kin. I'm not sure what reports they're releasing to her. I'm not sure of anything that goes on around here,” she says. “The FBI's shown up for the meeting. I don't know who else has or will. The latest twist is that Frank Paulsson allegedly sexually harasses female pilots.”

“Huh.” Marino is in a hurry and acting perfectly bizarre, and he smells like booze and looks like hell.

“Are you all right?” she asks. “What am I saying? Of course you're not.”

“It's no big deal,” he says.

M
ARINO HEAPS SUGAR
into his coffee. He must be in very bad shape to take refined white sugar, because it is off-limits in his diet, absolutely the worst thing he can put into his mouth right now.

“You sure you want to do that to yourself?” Scarpetta asks. “You're going to be sorry.”

“What the hell was she doing here?” He stirs in another spoonful of sugar. “I walk in the morgue and there's the kid's mother walking down the hallway. Don't tell me she was viewing Gilly, because I know she isn't viewable. So what in the hell was she doing here?”

Marino is dressed in the same black cargo pants and windbreaker and LAPD baseball cap, and he hasn't shaved and his eyes are exhausted and wild. Maybe after the FOP lounge, he went out to see one of his women, one of those lowlife women he used to meet in the bowling alley and get drunk with and sleep with.

“If you're going to be in a mood, maybe it's better you don't go into the meeting with me,” Scarpetta says. “They didn't invite you. So I don't need to make matters worse by showing up with you when you're in a mood. You know how you get when you eat sugar these days.”

“Huh,” he says, looking at the closed conference room door. “Yeah, well, I'll show those assholes a mood.”

“What's happened?”

“There's talk going around,” he says in a low, angry voice. “About you.”

“Talk going around where?” She hates the kind of talk he means and usually pays little attention to it.

“Talk about you moving back here, and that's really why you're here.” He looks accusingly at her, sipping his poisonously sweet coffee. “What the hell are you holding back from me, huh?”

“I wouldn't move back here,” she says. “I'm surprised you would listen to baseless, idle talk.”

“I ain't coming back here,” he says, as if the talk is about him and not her. “No way. Don't even think about it.”

“I wouldn't think about it. Let's don't think about it at all right now.” She walks on to the conference room and opens the dark wooden door.

Marino can follow her if he wants, or he can stand out by the coffee machine, eating sugar all day. She isn't going to coax or cajole him. She'll have to find out more about what's bothering him, but not now. Now she has a meeting with Dr. Marcus, the FBI, and Jack Fielding, who stood her up last night, and whose skin is more inflamed than when she saw him last. No one speaks to her as she finds a chair. No one speaks to Marino as he follows her and pulls out a chair next to hers. Well, this is an inquisition, she thinks.

“Let's get started,” Dr. Marcus begins. “I guess you've been introduced to Special Agent Weber from the FBI Profiling Unit,” he says to Scarpetta, calling the unit by the wrong name. It is the Behavioral Science Unit, not the Profiling Unit. “We have a real problem on our hands, as if we didn't have enough problems.” His face is grim, his small eyes glittering coldly behind his glasses. “Dr. Scarpetta,” he says loudly. “You reautopsied Gilly Paulsson. But you also examined Mr. Whitby, the tractor driver, did you not?”

Fielding stares down at a file folder and says nothing, his face raw and red.

“I wouldn't say I examined him,” she replies, giving Fielding a look. “Nor do I have any idea what this is about.”

“Did you touch him?” asks Special Agent Karen Weber.

“I'm sorry. But is the FBI also involved in the tractor driver's death?” Scarpetta asks.

“Possibly. We'll hope not, but quite possibly,” says Special Agent Weber, who seems to enjoy questioning Scarpetta, the former chief.

“Did you touch him?” It is Dr. Marcus who asks this time.

“Yes,” Scarpetta replies. “I did touch him.”

“And of course you did,” Dr. Marcus says to Fielding. “You did the external examination and began the autopsy, and then at some point joined her in the decomp room to reexamine the Paulsson girl.”

“Oh yeah,” Fielding mutters, glancing up from his case file, but not looking at anyone in particular. “This is bullshit.”

“What did you say?” Dr. Marcus asks.

“You heard me. This is bullshit,” Fielding says. “I told you that yesterday when this came up. This morning I'll tell you the same damn thing. It's bullshit. I'm not going to be hung on some cross in front of the FBI or anyone else.”

“I'm afraid it isn't bullshit, Dr. Fielding. We have a major problem with the evidence. The trace evidence recovered from Gilly Paulsson's body seems identical to trace evidence recovered from the tractor driver, Mr. Whitby. Now, I just don't see how that's possible unless there's been some sort of cross-contamination. And by the way, I also don't understand why you were looking for trace evidence in the Whitby case to begin with. He's an accident. Not a homicide. Correct me if I'm wrong.”

“I'm not prepared to swear to anything,” Fielding replies, his face and hands so raw it is painful to look at them. “He was crushed to death, but how that happened remains to be proven. I didn't witness his death. I swabbed a wound on his face to see if there might have been any grease, for example, in the event someone comes forward and says he was assaulted, hit in the face with something as opposed to being just run over.”

“What's this about? What trace?” asks Marino, and he is surprisingly calm for a man who has just shocked his system with a dangerous dose of sugar.

“Frankly, I don't consider this any of your business,” Dr. Marcus says to him. “But since your colleague insists on having you in tow wherever she goes, I must accept that you're here. I must in turn insist that what is said in this room stays in the room.”

“Insist away,” Marino says, smiling at Special Agent Weber. “And to what do we owe the pleasure?” he asks her. “I used to know the unit chief up there in Marine Corps Land. Funny how everyone forgets that Quantico is more about the Marines than it is the FBI. Ever heard of Benton Wesley?”

“Of course.”

“Ever read all the shit he's written about profiling?”

“I'm very familiar with his work,” she says, her fingers laced on top of a legal pad, her long nails flawlessly manicured and painted deep red.

“Good. Then you probably know he thinks profiling's about as reliable as fortune cookies,” Marino says.

“I didn't come here to be abused,” Special Agent Weber says to Dr. Marcus.

“Gee, I sure am sorry,” Marino says to Dr. Marcus. “It's not my intention to run her off. I'm sure we could use an expert from the FBI Profiler Unit to tell us all about trace evidence.”

“That's quite enough,” Dr. Marcus says angrily. “If you can't behave as a professional, then I must ask you to leave.”

“No, no. Don't mind me,” Marino says. “I'll sit here nice and pretty and listen. Go right ahead.”

Jack Fielding is slowly shaking his head, staring down at the file folder.

“I'll go ahead,” Scarpetta says, and she no longer cares about being nice or even diplomatic. “Dr. Marcus, this is the first you've mentioned trace evidence in Gilly Paulsson's case. You call me to Richmond to help with her case and then fail to tell me about trace evidence?” She looks at him, then at Fielding.

“Don't ask me,” Fielding tells her. “I did the swabs. I didn't get the report back from the labs, not even a phone call. Not that I usually do anymore. At least not directly. I only heard about this late yesterday when he”—he means Dr. Marcus—“mentioned it to me as I was getting into my car.”

“I didn't find out until late in the day,” Dr. Marcus snaps. “One of those inane little notes that what's-his-name Ice or Eise is always sending me about the way we do things, as if he could do them better. There was nothing especially helpful about what the labs have found so far. A few hairs and other debris, including possible paint chips that I suppose could have come from anywhere, including an automobile, I suppose, or something inside the Paulsson house. Perhaps even a bicycle or a toy.”

“They should know if the paint is automotive,” Scarpetta replies. “Certainly, they should be able to match it back to anything inside the house.”

“I think my point is that there is no DNA. The swabs were negative for that. And of course, if we're thinking homicide, DNA on a vaginal or oral swab would have been very significant. I was more focused on whether there was DNA than on these alleged paint chips until I get this e-mail late yesterday from trace evidence and come to find out the astonishing fact that the swabs you took on the tractor driver apparently have this same debris on them.” Dr. Marcus stares at Fielding.

“And this so-called cross-contamination would have happened how, exactly?” Scarpetta asks.

Dr. Marcus raises his hands in a slow, exaggerated shrug. “You tell me.”

“I don't see how,” she replies. “We changed our gloves, not that it matters, because we didn't swab Gilly Paulsson's body again. That would have been an exercise in futility after she's been washed, autopsied, swabbed, washed again, and reautopsied after being stored inside a pouch for two weeks.”

“Of course you wouldn't have swabbed her again,” Dr. Marcus says as if he is very big and she is very small. “But I'm assuming you weren't finished autopsying Mr. Whitby and perhaps returned to him after reexamining the Paulsson girl.”

“I swabbed Mr. Whitby, then worked on the Paulsson girl,” Fielding says. “I did not swab her. That's clear. And there couldn't have been any trace left on her to transfer to him or anyone else.”

“This isn't for me to explain,” Dr. Marcus decides. “I don't know what the hell happened, but something did. We have to consider every possible scenario because you can rest assured that attorneys will, should either case ever go to court.”

“Gilly's death will go to court,” Special Agent Weber says as if she knows this for a fact and is personally connected to the dead fourteen-year-old. “Maybe there's been some kind of mix-up in the lab,” she then considers. “Some sample mislabeled or one sample contaminated another sample. Did the same forensic scientist do both analyses?”

“Eise, I guess that's his name, did them both,” Dr. Marcus answers. “He did the trace or is doing the trace, but not the hair.”

“You've mentioned hair twice. What hair?” Scarpetta asks. “Now you're telling me hair was recovered.”

“Several hairs from the Gilly Paulsson scene,” he replies. “I think from the bed linens.”

“Let's hope like hell it ain't the tractor driver's hair,” Marino remarks. “Or maybe you should hope it is. He kills the girl then can't take the guilt and runs over himself with his tractor. Case exceptionally cleared.”

No one thinks he is funny.

“I asked that her bed linens be checked for ciliated respiratory epithelium,” Scarpetta says to Fielding.

“The pillowcase,” he says. “The answer's yes.”

She should be relieved. The presence of that biological evidence suggests that Gilly was asphyxiated, but the truth hurts her deeply. “An awful way to die,” she says. “Perfectly awful.”

“I'm sorry,” Special Agent Weber says. “Am I missing something?”

“The kid was murdered,” Marino replies. “Other than that, I don't know what the hell you're missing.”

“You know, I really don't have to put up with this,” she says to Dr. Marcus.

“Yeah, she really does,” Marino says to him. “Unless you want to pry me out of this room yourself. Otherwise, I'm just gonna sit here nice and pretty and say whatever the hell I want.”

“While we're having this open, honest conversation,” Scarpetta says to the special agent, “I'd like to hear directly from you why the FBI is involved in Gilly Paulsson's case.”

“Very simply, the Richmond police asked for our assistance,” Special Agent Weber replies.

“Why?”

“I suppose you should ask them that.”

“I'm asking you,” Scarpetta tells her. “Someone's going to shoot straight with me or I'm walking out of this office and not coming back.”

“It's not quite that simple.” Dr. Marcus looks at her long and steady with heavy-lidded eyes, reminding her of a lizard. “You've involved yourself. You examined the tractor driver, and now we have possible cross-contamination of evidence. I'm afraid it's not as easy as your just walking out and not coming back. The choice is no longer yours to make.”

“This is such bullshit,” Fielding mutters again, staring down at his raw, scaly hands in his lap.

“I'll tell you why the FBI's involved.” It is Marino who offers this. “At least I'll tell you what the Richmond PD has to say about it, if you really want to know. It might hurt your feelings,” he says to Special Agent Weber. “And by the way, did I mention how much I like your suit? And your red shoes. Love 'em, but what happens if you get into a foot pursuit in those things?”

“I've had enough,” she says in a smoldering tone.

“No! I've had enough!” Jack Fielding suddenly slams his fist on the table and is on his feet. He steps back from the table and looks around it with flashing, enraged eyes. “Fuck all of this. I quit. Do you hear me, you little numb-nut asshole,” he says to Dr. Marcus. “I quit. And fuck you too.” He jabs a finger in the air, poking his index finger at Special Agent Weber. “You stupid fucking Feds, coming in here like God and you don't know shit. You couldn't work a fucking homicide if it happened right in your own fucking bed! I quit!” He backs toward the door. “Go ahead, Pete. I know you know,” he says, staring at Marino. “Tell Dr. Scarpetta the truth. Go on. Someone should.”

He strides out the door and shuts it loudly.

After a stunned silence, Dr. Marcus says, “Well, that was quite something. I apologize,” he says to Special Agent Weber.

“Is he having a nervous breakdown?” she asks.